Ben had lined up some shots of Tequila across the countertop—I hated Tequila.
“Well.” Ben held up a shot. “To us, on our first date.” I smiled at him, as he threw one down and bit into the obligatory lemon—a custom which makes the whole hideous experience . . . well . . . even more hideous than it needs to be. I scrunched up my face as I threw one back, grabbing a glass of water to try and wash it down without gagging—did I mention I hate Tequila?Ben laughed at me and pushed another one my way.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I asked, noting the bad-boy look plastered across his face.
“Of course. And then I plan on taking total advantage of you.”
“Maybe I’ll be the one taking advantage, Ben.” I said it in the sultriest voice I could muster before I threw back yet another shot. “Aren’t you having another one?” I said and pointed at the last one on the counter top.
Ben shook his head. “I’m transporting precious cargo tonight.”
“Fine then.” I took the last one and threw it down as well. The warmth and the buzz was instant, and it gave me the courage to take Ben by the hand and lead him onto the dance floor.
The cool crowd was already there swaying to some obscure electronic music, but after some laughter and our own version of swaying about, our bodies finally began to move in time to the strangely rhythmic music. I quickly learnt though that going out with Ben equated to going out with a celebrity. Every few minutes we were interrupted by über-cool people popping by to say “Hi,” including a large handful of rather attractive women. The kind that simply walked up to him and planted kisses on his mouth, or hugged him for a little too long, or let their hand linger on his shoulder. One even tucked a stray piece of his hair behind his ear.
Every time it happened, Ben looked my way sheepishly, trying to shrug them off. There was really only one way to deal with this. I pushed my way past one of them—the one batting her eyelashes and flipping her trollopy hair as she talked—and I pulled Ben towards me, and into the most inappropriate kiss that cool club had ever seen. The kiss continued until our bodies began to get into the rhythm again, swaying together as we kissed deeply and passionately, not caring who was watching. I felt Ben’s hands come around to my lower back and he pulled me in even tighter, slipping one of his legs between mine, pushing them apart so his knee rubbed against me.
Perhaps we lost ourselves a little too much because the people and the background melted away into a distant muffled blur. Our kiss intensified, growing hungrier and more desperate by the second. He pushed his hips into me and I could feel that he was rock hard. I lost myself even more as I rubbed into him.
One of his hands left my lower back and traveled slowly up to my waist, but it didn’t stop there. It traveled a little further up my side, and with his fingers splayed working their way up to my rib cage, he very quickly, and deliberately, moved his thumb around to my front and grazed my breast through my dress. I gasped, stopped kissing him and looked into his eyes only to find pure, unadulterated lust etched into them.
Keeping eye contact, I slipped my hand between us and ran it over the front of his pants, watching with delight as he bit his lips in response before taking me by the nape of the neck and kissing me once more. We moved to the music, our hips rocking against each other; the tension building and building, until it felt like too much to contain in this place.
I broke away and took Ben by the hand, marching him out of the club past several girls giving me some looks. A few of them turned to each other and whispered. But I didn’t care. He was mine and I was going to make sure they all knew. I’d probably regret this in the morning—Tequila courage often comes with morning-after regrets—did I mention I like Tequila?
Minutes later, we were in the car, and Ben was speeding off to “find a quiet spot.” We were like two teenagers out of their minds with hormone-induced madness. I slipped my hand into Ben’s jeans while he drove and continued to touch him. I could see he was desperately trying to focus on the road as his breath quickened and he gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white.
“Sera . . .” His tone was whispery and urgent. “You’re going to have to stop doing that.”
“Why?” I continued. I was loving the way he looked right now, almost out of control—in my control.
Ben grabbed my hand and pulled it away. “Fuck. Stop. You’re going to make me come.” He took my hand in his, kissed it and ran it across his cheek. Then he took a deep breath and looked at me again.
“So come,” I said, trying to pull my hand away and put it right back where it had been.
Ben shook his head. “No. Not like this.”
“Then how?” I asked, the alcohol and dopamine was surging through my veins in a way that was turning me on more than I’d ever been in my life.
“The right way.” He took my hand and kissed it again.What the hell was the right way?
“I’m starved. What say we book ourselves into a ludicrously overpriced hotel and order everything on the room-service menu?” Ben asked, changing the subject.
“Um.” I felt the color drain from my cheeks and a knot twist in my stomach. This, right here, was one of the many reasons I never socialized with people from work. Ben might have the money to book an expensive hotel room whenever he wanted to—I did not. I would never be able to contribute financially if this was the kind of thing he had in mind.
“On me!” he clarified quickly. “This is my date.” He slipped a hand around the nape of my neck in a comforting way, as if he’d somehow read my mind. But, even though he was offering, I still hated not being able to pay my way, or at least contribute as an equal.
“Hey!” Ben clicked his fingers in front of my face. “Stop thinking.” He ran his hand over my forehead and playfully straightened my scrunched up brow with his fingers. “Or you’ll need Botox soon.”
“Okay.” I half smiled and nodded at him, even though I still didn’t feel good about it.
Then his fingers slipped down the side of my face and he took me by the chin and tilted my head towards him. He took his eye off the road for a second and looked me in the eye. “You’re far too young and beautiful to worry about stuff like that.”
“How do you know what I’m worrying about?” I asked.
A strange look passed across his face, but as quickly as it had appeared, it disappeared, and he shrugged. “My powers of telepathy,” he said flippantly and the subject was dropped.
55. Bump Into A Backstreet Boy . . .
